


Wolves Like Us

by Maryassassina



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryassassina/pseuds/Maryassassina
Summary: The story of two of my favorite characters who have more in common than it would seem at first sight. A lost home, an unwanted curse, the strong desire to do what's best for their people and, not least: Sylvanas Windrunner.Follows loosely WoW's history from Cataclysm to BFA, with alternating PoV's.I wasn't sure if I would want to keep writing this, but I did, so here goes.
Relationships: Genn Greymane/ Dark Ranger Velonara
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. 1

Embedded in a mountain range in the far west of the Gilnean Peninsula stood Greymane Manor, the anchestral home of the family with the same name.

The castle was big and impressive as was only fitting for his royal inhabitants, albeit kept in dark tones that stood in stark contrast to the shiny white buildings in fellow human capitals such as Stormwind.

A defiant fortress, inaccessible save for a narrow, at all times well guarded, pathway, it looked down on the coastline before it like a proud and gloomy watcher, and the same could well be said about the man who stood in his observatory on top of the tower behind it.

Genn Greymane, King of Gilneas, stepped away from the telescope with a deep sigh.

Although being a battle-hardened warrior and still strong like an ox, he wasn't a young man anymore and on days like these, he felt the full weight of his years pressing down on him.

His face- which had always been characterful rather than actually handsome- was crossed by fine lines and his hair, although still full, now mostly grey as was the beard on his square jaw and the bushy eyebrows over electric blue eyes, now furrowed into a deep frown.

The harsh wind coming from the ocean blew cold drizzle into his face, but it wasn't the unpleasant weather that worried the king. It rained most of the time in Gilneas, and most of the time it was also stormy and cold.

As if in adaption to the rough climate, its natives were a gruff, tight-lipped people, distrustful towards strangers and everything that went against their traditional ways of living, and their king was no exception.

It had been this attitude, along with the prideful belief that Gilneas could stand on its own and didn't need help from others, that had eventually led him to leave the Old Alliance and build the great wall around his kingdom- both to keep his people safe within and everyone else out.

Back then, after the Second War against the orcs, it had seemed like a good idea.

As it had seemed a good idea during the Third War to allow his court archmage to conjure a 'secret weapon' against the Scourge — feral beasts who had been contained for millennia in the Emerald Dream.

Now however, the wall that was meant to protect them turned out to be their prison, and the monsters they had unleashed had proven to be uncontrollable and spread their curse among his people.

At first it were only a few isolated incidents whose primary victims were Greymane loyalists, which led many to believe the Northgate Rebellion were behind the gruesome murders. Their leader, Darius Crowley, a childhood friend of the king, was a staunch supporter of the Alliance and strongly opposed his king's isolationist politics.

But soon it turned out that the so-called Starlight Slasher killings weren't the deeds of men but instead of the beasts they themselves had summoned. The hunt for the hunters began.

Absently, Genn pulled the collar of his coat up higher into his face, just as he had when during one of those nightly hunts, his prey had managed to inflict a wound in his shoulder before he could put it down.

He had been well aware what this meant and yet he had told no one of his infection, not even his family. The curse of the worgen was irreversible, but their were means and ways to contain the damage, potions, rituals, that would prevent the beast from taking control of the human mind.

And the people needed their king, now more than ever. A new war was dawning on the horizon, the Forsaken under the Banshee Queen Sylvanas stood before their gates, and their ships were taking course on their coast- he had seen their black sails in the distance.

Gilneas City was already overrun by a horde of countless feral worgen and had to be evacuated, then Duskhaven as well. Greymane Manor had been a safe haven for a time, but it was no longer safe either. Thus attacked from outside and inside the Gilneans had nowhere to run and no allies left to help them in their direst hour.

The king averted his eyes from the ocean, opened his fist and looked down at the item he held in it.

It was a peacebloom, given to him by his daughter Tess as a sign of hope. Its petals were crushed and it looked so tiny in his big, calloused hand.

Genn pressed his lips into a bitter line. So that was what 'hope' looked like for Gilneas right now.

And still he knew he would never give up, never surrender. He would fight to the last, for his people, and his family. As long as there still was a chance, however small, he would do everything in his might to protect them- or die trying.

Carefully, Genn stowed the small flower away in his coat's pocket. A soft clink reminded him of the bottle he carried in it, and he pulled it out and took a deep draught, then another.

Then he began to descend the stairs of the tower to order the retreat to Stormglen Village in the east. There were some people he needed to speak with, some old grudges that had to be settled. If Gilneas were to stand against his enemies, it had to stand united.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

_The Forsaken Front, Silverpine Forest_

When her guest had left, Sylvanas Windrunner walked out of the tent and let her gaze roam over her army in front of the Gilnean Wall.

She was satisfied with what she saw. Once the gate would be broken, the people behind it stood no chance against the might of Undercity and its queen. She had siege towers and she had hundreds of soldiers, among them several fearful abominations and two dozens of her elite guards, the Dark Rangers.

She also had three Blight Throwers.

Now Garrosh had explicitly forbidden the use of blight, but he wasn't here, was he? And the Banshee Queen wasn't someone who liked to take orders from others, even if those "others" happened to be her warchief.

To hell with orcs and their outdated sense of honor! If you wanted to win a war, you had to use all means at your disposal. But perhaps she wouldn't have to. The unexpected visitor had presented her a different opportunity...

No easier was a victory achieved than by betrayal from within, and she of all people should know that. It was thanks to such a traitor that Quel'Thalas had fallen, and even though the memory still filled her with furious rage, there was a sort of grim satisfaction in the thought that Gilneas could fall in the same way. Not to Garrosh and the Horde, though. To the Forsaken. To _her_. A cold smile played around her lips and she allowed it to linger there for a moment longer when one of her battleguards announced the one she had been waiting for.

The dark-clad figure who dismounted and hurried to bow before her queen looked quite pleased herself, as Sylvanas couldn't help but notice.

Velonara was just one of her low ranking dark rangers, but what she might lack in experience, she certainly made up for with fervor. A few strayed strands of silvery blonde hair peeked out under her hood, proof that she had been riding fast and hard, and the red eyes in her pale, heart-shaped face glowed in silent triumph.

"I take it, your mission was a success?" the Banshee Queen inquired.

"Yes, Dark Lady." Velonara curled her full lips into a grim smile." The Scarlet Monastry lies in ruins. The pitiful remnants of the Crusade have fled in fear and it is only a matter of time until we hunt them down to the last man."

"Good." Sylvanas gave an approving nod. She knew Velonara had very personal reasons to hate the Scarlet Crusade and thus, had no doubts she would accomplish her mission to her full satisfaction. "I have another task for you. I hope you aren't too tired."

Velonara accomplished the remark with a slight raising of her brow. One of the benefits of being undead was that you didn't need sleep any more. Or food. Or any of those other fleeting pleasures that the living believed made their lives worthwile.

"I stand ready at your command." she was quick to reply. "Death to all our enemies!"

Her zelousness was no act. Velonara had given her life in defense of Quel'Thalas, she had been the last of her rangers to fall before Arthas made his final assault on city. She had not been able to stop him, but then, neither had Sylvanas. They had both been killed and raised to serve him, and when Sylvanas had broken free from his grasp, she had freed her tormented sisters as well.

She took a moment to study her counterpart's face. Velonara had been but a maiden when she died and death had preserved her youthful beauty. Before the war broke out, she had been betrothed to a nobleman of her dreams.

Well, pity. The pleasures of marriage and family life were now forever out of her reach, but her charms could still serve a purpose.

"The job I have for you this time is of a less- violent nature," the Banshee Queen began slowly. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "As you know, the worgen have proven to be quite a nuisance and we have so far done everything to eradicate it root and branch. Look around- we are ready to invade the city and raze it to the ground, and the curse with it. But no assault comes without casualties. Perhaps there is another way- a better way. Those savage beasts could be a very powerful weapon- in the right hands, of course. _Our_ hands."

"I'm not sure I understand," Velonara replied with a frown. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"Well," Sylvanas lowered her voice even more. "Know that I have recently come to know that the king of Gilneas himself suffers from said curse." she informed her. "And he is in a desperate situation. His kingdom is about to fall and thanks to his stubborness in the past, his old allies are unlikely to come to the rescue. What if we could convince him to go over to our side?"

"I see, Dark Lady,"Velonara replied slowly, but the sceptical expression did not leave her face. "However, from all I've heard about King Greymane, he's not exactly the sort to be convinced easily."

"Ah, my dear Velonara," Sylvanas smiled at her. "He is a man is he not? Do what you must. I fully trust in your skills."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

_One week later_

The carriage rattled down the road towards Tempest Reach.

Inside, the king of Gilneas leaned back in the cushions, closed his eyes and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

The meeting at Tal'Doren had gone well, or at least, as well as could have been expected under the circumstances. After he had confessed to Crowley that he, too, was afflicted by the worgen curse, his old friend had promised to forget old resentments and stand by him against the Forsaken invaders. Lord Godfrey, another Gilnean nobleman, had been visibly shocked about the revelation, but he, too, had sworn to do all in his might to save their home.

The horses neighed as the carriage suddenly came to a rumbling halt.

Genn sat up, opened his eyes as the vehicle's door opened- and looked directly into the barrel of a gun.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked incredulously when he recognized his attacker. "Have you lost your mind, Godfrey?"

"On the contrary, old friend." The fellow Gilnean climbed into the carriage and took the seat across from him, the weapon still pointed at him. "I have never before seen so clearly. Did you really believe, I would accept one of those cursed beasts as my king?"

He took off his cylinder and the fading daylight sparkled on his glasses. "I'd rather die," he spat through clenched teeth. "But perhaps there is still hope. I have spoken to the Banshee Queen and she is willing to spare our beloved home if I give her something in return- _you_."

Genn barked out a bitter laugh. He felt rage seethe in his veins as his body began to contort in order to unleash the beast within. "Negotiating with the Forsaken?" he snarled. "You must indeed be insane. Those undead monsters know no honor, they won't bother to keep their part of the bargain. You can sell me to them, but the reward for your efforts will still be death. With the only difference that you'll die as a filthy traitor to king and country!"

His muscles tensed as he made to leap at his counterpart and he bared his fangs to bury them in Godfrey's throat.

The next thing he felt was a searing pain when the barrel of the gun crushed hard against his temple. Then nothing.


	2. Genn

When Genn regained consciousness, he found himself in a small, dark room, his wrists and ankles chained tightly to the chair he was sitting in.

A dull pain thrubbed in his left temple, but that was nothing compared to the bitter realization that he had been betrayed by a man he had known and trusted all his life.

Apparently Godfrey's disgust with the Worgen curse was even stronger than his hatred for the Forsaken.

He had been a fool to believe his old friend would be able to overcome his prejudices in the face of a common enemy.

But Godfrey, too, was a fool to believe Sylvanas' promises.

The Banshee Queen would not spare Gilneas in exchange for its king; all Godfrey's traitorous deed would achieve was the weakening of their own defenses in the upcoming battle.

And the battle would come. He could not allow this to happen. His people needed him!

Liam was a skilled and fearless warrior, but he had not seen battle like his father had.

They'd had their differences in the past, but Genn was proud of his son and heir and loved him dearly- even though he had never been able to say it to him.

And now it seemed he never would.

Genn tensed his muscles in order to test his shackles, but they were of solid iron, impossible to break by sheer muscle power or wiggle out of it.

But what Genn, the man, could not do, perhaps the beast could. It was so much stronger than him, and admittedly, much more flexible as well.

He allowed his rage and anger take hold of him and again felt the by now familiar call of the wild sing in his veins as his body contorted and he transformed into its lupine form.

His hands and feet turned into mighty claws, silvery grey fur covered his body, his features stretched and formed a snout and a jaw filled with razor-sharp teeth.

The Worgen let out a bestial roar and again tried to break free from his chains. But as much as he tore and pulled, they still held him firmly in place.

So engrossed was he in fighting his losing battle, that he only noticed the hooded figure who had walked in when she spoke.

"Spare your efforts," said a woman's voice.

The stranger walked closer and watched him with what seemed to be a kind of disgusted fascination. "Those chains are enhanced by magic and cannot be broken by force. You would only hurt yourself." She curled her lips into a mischievous smile. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The king looked up at his captor. She was visibly one of the undead monsters, but not a rotten corpse but a well-preserved High Elf like her mistress- which meant she could only be one of her infamous elite soldiers, the Dark Rangers.

Of all Forsaken, her kind was definitely the one Genn despised the most, devious assassins who murdered without a qualm- But he couldn't deny that she had a point. Already his wrists and ankles were raw from his violent attempts to break free, whereas the chains had not given in an inch.

With a defeated sigh, Genn changed back into his human form. "As if you would care." he snorted. "I know quite well what fate awaits me as your prisoner, monster. Death, and torture before that."

The dark-clad figure shook her head. ""My my, how dramatic you are," she sighed. "And how rude."

She pulled her hood back and a mass of silvery-blond curls fell around her face. "My name is Velonara," she introduced herself and made a mocking curtsey. "Now tell me, King Greymane, do I really look like a monster to you?"

And indeed she did not.

The body beneath her tight leather garb was slender but well-rounded in all the right spots, and her heart-shaped face was of an exquisite beauty.

Were it not for her deathly pallor and her glowing red eyes, in the half-light of the room she might well be mistaken for a living woman, barely older than his own daughter- and a very tempting one at that.

"You _are_ monsters, all of you, no matter what form or shape you come in." Genn growled.

Velonara's red eyes sparkled, but if it was with rage or amusement he could not say.

"That rude word again," she chided him. " Quite rich coming from you, don't you think? Especially when it seems that your fellow countrymen prefer our kind of monstrosity over yours."

"Pfah, Godfrey is just one man." Genn spat. "Not everyone is as narrow-minded as he is. The rest of my people stand loyal to their country and its king." ( Or at least, that was what he hoped. )

The Dark Ranger tilted her head and watched him, almost sympathetically. "The humans will never accept you and your kind, believe me," she said. "Sad. But who could blame them? Wild beasts roaming the streets of their respectable towns at night? No matter what you may tell yourself, you will always be a monster in their eyes, a creature out of their nightmares."

She walked closer and let her hand slide along the arms of his chair, and as if by accident, her cool fingertips happened to brush his arm. He felt the touch even through his thick coat and it gave him goosebumps. "My people, on the other hand, are not so- prejudiced." she went on. "We know only too well what it means to be outcasts- rejected and hunted by the ones we once loved the most-"

She leaned in closer, her face only inches away from his, and he shuddered against his will when her breath brushed his ear. "Maybe it's time to abandon old alliances." she whispered. "And open up to new ones."

Genn threw his head back with a bitter laugh. "You talk of alliances with an army standing in front of our gates?" he barked. "Very convincing, I must say. Your kind and mine, we are sworn enemies and always will be. Your cursed Banshee Queen has seen to that."

"Oh really?" Velonara's eyes narrowed. "You're quick to blame others, King Greymane, always were." she said icily. " Must I remind you that those very gates of yours stayed closed for all the people who sought refuge from the Scourge?"

"A precaution," Genn mumbled, remembering with a pang how he'd had the same argument with his son back then. "Had I opened the doors to the refugees, the Scourge would have overrun my kingdom as well."

"And so you left them to their certain death. Truly the deed of a great hero-" Velonara stopped mid-sentence and inhaled deeply- to compose herself as he assumed. Undead didn't have to breathe.

She shrugged her slender shoulders and forced her lips into a strained smile. "But that's all in the past now, right? We all do what we must in order to survive, I know that quite well. One more reason to reconsider my offer."

Genn hung his head. "I do not expect to survive my captivity," he said in a low voice. The thought that he should never see his family again, his wife Mia, and his children, Liam and Tess, threatened to tear his heart out.

He raised his head again and looked his captor in the eye. "But if my only choice is death or betrayal of my country, I will die gladly. You can torture me all you want, but you will find that you cannot break my will, nor change my mind on this."

Velonara raised her eyebrows. "Who's talking about torture?"she smiled.

And before Genn knew what happened, she had climbed on the chair and seated herself right on his lap.

She reached out and touched his temples, her cool, white hands gently brushing the hair back behind his ears.

Genn let out a shocked gasp at the unexpected touch and once more pulled at his shackles which, unsurprisingly, remained tight and inflexible.

"You are a fascinating man, Genn Greymane," Velonara mused. "Headstrong, unyielding. I quite like that." She sighed. " Albeit- terribly unimaginative, as all men."

Her hands stroked his cheeks now, ever so softly, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Worse even, with her slim, but surprisingly strong thighs straddling him, he could feel his body betray him and react to her against his will, a fact that did not escape her as well.

"I don't think I need to resort to torture to convince you," she purred with a knowing smile.

And then, she leaned in and captured his mouth for a deep, and completely unchaste kiss, and he, to his utter surprise and self-disgust, found himself kissing her back with a hunger he had not known he had in him.

Now it was true that the Worgen curse had changed him in more ways than one, and one of the more pleasant side- effects of it were the increase of both his libido and his virility- something his wife had come to appreciate as well- even though she could of course not know the source of it.

Not that Mia would kiss him like _this._ Muss less do what his vicious captor did next.

Velonara broke their kiss, then slid off his lap and down between his legs.

Despite his muffled- and admittedly, rather half-hearted- protests, her skilled hands made quick work of his trousers' buttons and exposed his impressive errection. Genn threw his head back and groaned deep in his throat when she took him in her hands. Her loose, silky hair brushed his thighs as she bent forward and her full, red lips closed around the head of his rigid member, then slowly slid down the length of it and up again.

Never before in his life- not even in the face of the most fearsome enemy- had he felt so defenseless, so vulnerable.

Unable to stop her due to his shackles, and unable to suppress his immense arousal, he pressed his eyes shut and tried to think of something else, of someone- _anyone_ \- else. Of Mia, who, although being a dutiful wife and good mother to his children, had never done such a thing to him, let alone that he would ask it of her. Of long forgotten childhood sweethearts and the rare encounters he'd had with whores.

But it didn't help.

It was her who he saw even with his eyes closed, this terrible, beautiful woman who wasn't even a woman but just a cold, lifeless thing.

And yet, when he blocked out the thought that those lips that were sucking him so deliciously were in effect dead, rotting flesh, he could not deny that it felt incredibly good. In fact, he couldn't remember anything that had ever felt so good before.

And when she finally let go off him, got rid of her own pants with a quick, sweeping motion and climbed back upon him with her bare legs spread to take him inside her silky wet folds- and even being fully aware how wrong all this was in so many ways- he no longer felt repulsion or shame.

She kissed him again, deep, wet kisses, her tongue dancing with his, as she began to move on him. With his hands still bound to the arms of the chair he could not touch her as he would have liked, but he ground his hips into hers and thrusted into her with all his might, eager to put an end to this madness.

His relief was quick and violent and he emptied himself inside her with a loud, guttural groan.

And when he had come to his senses enough to look at her again he meant to notice a slight flush on her pale cheeks as well.

But that was impossible. She was dead. No longer able to feel anything. It must be the dim light in the room that made his eyes play tricks on him.

Velonara brushed the hair off her face, climbed off him and put her pants back on. Then, to his utter relief, she had the decency to button his trousers as well.

"Now, I'd say that was a promising start of our- negotiations," she noted in a hoarse voice, and sounding a little surprised about it herself. Or maybe that was just his imagination. 

"There are no negotiations," Genn growled, but he couldn't meet her eyes. "This- this changes nothing."

"We will see." Velonara replied. "But you must be exhausted. I will see to it that you get some food and wine." She winked at him. " You do like wine, don't you?"

Then she turned and walked towards the door, but before she left the room she threw him a last glance from under her long lashes. "We will continue our- conversation tomorrow, King Greymane." she smiled. " I for one am looking forward to it."

But this tomorrow should never come.

In the same night a brave party of his countrymen stormed the place, freed their king and made quick work of his captors. The traitor Godfrey escaped his just punishment by throwing himself from the cliff and to his death.

When the fight was over Genn walked out of his prison and inspected the bodies of Undead who littered the front court, in search of a flash of silvery-blonde hair-

But he found nothing. As it seemed, the Dark Ranger Velonara was not among them.

Genn frowned. He was worried. And yet- and not that he would have admitted it to himself-oddly relieved at the same time.


	3. Genn

_Darnassus, Teldrassil_

It's that dream again, the same he's had every night for the last weeks- _months_ -now, forcing him to relive the darkest hour of his life all over again, down to the last tormenting detail.

In the day he usually manages to suppress the onslaught of unwelcome memories.

Through sheer willpower, as he likes to believe, in truth more with the help of the canteen he carries with him at all times and makes sure to keep always well filled.

But at night when he finally sinks into a restless, wine-heavy sleep, it all comes back.

The noises. The smells. Fire and smoke and blood.

The roaring of cannons, wounded and dying men screaming in agony.

Outnumbered by a multiple they had still fought so bravely, every single one of them.

And finally managed the impossible, to drive the undead monsters back inch by inch, until only she remained, surrounded by a handful of her elite guards.

_SYLVANAS !!!_

His own scream, he hears it again, sees himself leap towards her, claws extended, fangs bared, ready to tear his way through her defenses and bury them deep into the foul, dead flesh of her throat.

She raises her bow.

Aims.

A tiny, cold smile plays around her purple lips. "Let's see how brave Gilneas gets on without its stubborn leader."

And he's ready for her arrow too, ready to die for his people, it doesn't matter, they have won, the battle is over, this is her last stand and they both know it.

He will die but he will take her with him to his grave and Gilneas will be free-

Every time in his dream, he is ready again.

Every time his wish is denied.

And every time he remembers only when he hears the voice.

_"Father!"_

And then Liam, his wonderful son, his brave, stupid son, throws himself in front of him and takes the poisoned arrow that was meant for him.

Once more he cradles his dying son in his arms, once more he hears the banshee's hateful voice. "Such a shame. That arrows' poison wasn't meant to be wasted on your whelp. We will meet again!"

_Wasted!_

And what a waste it was, indeed.

The life of a young, promising prince in exchange for the broken wreck of a king, the pathetic ruin of the man he once was.

_We will meet again._

Oh, he intends to hold her to her word.

It's the one thing that still keeps him going, that promise.

They will meet again. And when they do, it will be she who will pay the ultimate price.

The banshee spurs her skeletal horse and leaves, and her guards follow suit, but one of them turns her head and throws him a last glance.

A small, heart-shaped face beneath a dark hood.

Deep red eyes lock with his for a second, and he believes to see the hint of an emotion in them. Regret, perhaps. Or sympathy.

He hates this one, too.

Hates himself.

The feeling remains as the dream shifts to a different location, a different scene.

Her sitting on his lap, naked from her waist downwards, thighs wrapped around his hips.

Cold skin,lips, flesh on warm one, melting into one.

This is the worst part of the dream.

With the pain and hatred from the later event later still raging inside him, he is still forced to return her kisses with equal passion, once more forced to feel the waves of immense pleasure surging through him as he rams into her with animal savagery.

His sin, his guilt, his punishment.

It all makes sense now in retrospect.

Maybe he hates her most of all.

And most certainly is he going to kill her, too, if she ever dares cross his path again.

He awakes, his sheets tangled and drenched in sweat, a dull ache throbbing in his head and in his loins.

He throws the sheets off and reaches out for the table next to the bed. Calloused fingers cramp around the bottle on it, just as they had one night around his wife's vulnerable neck.

She wasn't angry, doesn't blame him. She knows of his reoccuring nightmares. Light knows, she has her own. But she hasn't shared the bed with him anymore after the incident.

His guilt, his punishment.

He knows he is not alone in this.

He has lost his son, but his wife and his daughter still live. They still need him.

His people, those who survived and followed him into exile, still look to him for guidance.

It should be enough. It is not enough.

It's still dark, maybe an hour or two before dawn. A good time for hunting.

He gets up, puts on some light armor.

No weapons. The only weapon he needs is his own body. The man may be weak in spirit and flesh, but the beast is not.

He leaves his room at the Howling Oak and sneaks off towards the woods, hoping to meet none of the tree city's inhabitants.

Not that he wouldn't get along with them, on the contrary.

Although reclusive and xenophobic by nature- much like his own people, the graceful Night Elves have so far been nothing but helpful, and done everything in their might to make him feel at home here.

He is grateful for that, more than words can say, and he appreciates the wise council of their ruling couple Archdruid Malfurion and Tyrande, High Priestess of the Moon.

But he doesn't want company, not now.

And deep in his heart he knows Darnassus can never be his home.

The only home he's ever known, the only home he's ever wanted, is now a wasteland, drowned in blight- the Banshee's malicious farewell gift.

If she could not have his city, then no one should.

But one day he will return and have it all back. This is the oath he took at Liam's grave. And he cannot join his beloved son before it is fulfilled.

The nightly forest is quiet and peaceful, the air chill and sweet, full of the alluring smells of its nocturnal creatures. And the beast is always hungry.

He takes a deep breath, strips the restrictive burden of humanity and becomes one with the darkness.

But while those nightly hunts might sate the beast, they cannot satisfy the true hunger that rages inside him, not for some poor animal's warm flesh and blood, but for revenge.

By now he has learned from his mistakes, he knows he cannot achieve it on his own, he needs allies.

Swallowing his pride and accepting help from the Night Elves in his darkest hour was a good start, but it won't be enough against the combined forces of an unhinged horde under their warmongering warchief.

There will be a summit soon, here in Darnassus, with all the alliance leaders present, inclusing High King Varian himself, and he intents to convince them to let bygones be bygones and take Gilneas back into the fold.

Not at all an easy task, but he is confident he can do it. He must.

And then the day of the event comes- and he screws up thoroughly.

Granted, it is only partly his fault.

So much is at stake, the future of his people depends on the outcome of the meeting.

He is nervous. So maybe he drinks a little more than usual. In order to fight his anxiety, but also to loosen up a bit and make a good impression on their guests. He is aware that people usually don't think him an exactly likeable character- and also, that they may be right about that.

Plus, a large number of the alliance emissaries are dwarves, and the people of Ironforge certainly appreciate a hard drinking conversation partner. In the beginning, it's all going pretty well, too. Soon he finds himself involved in animated discussions about victorious battles.

And maybe he showboats a little.

But why should he not?

Sure, Gilneas had sent only a token force against the orcs in the Second War, but he himself was fighting in the front line.

Immersed in descriptions of his past heroic deeds as he is, he doesn't notice the arrival of the new guests.

And when he turns around at last, sees the king of Stormwind and the expression on his face, he realizes his mistake, but too late.

Still, he tries his best to convince him and the assembly that his people will be valuable allies. Admits mistakes, asks for forgiveness, vows to do better in the future. And finally displays the full power of his people when he and his men switch into their worgen forms.

And at first it looks as if his plea is successful. Most of the council members seem to be willing to give Gilneas a second chance, he can see one or the other nod in agreement as he speaks. But nobody dares make their approval known before the High King does.

And Varian stays silent, for a long time.

When he speaks at last, it is in a calm manner, his face not betraying any emotions. It is true that the alliance may have lost its edge, he admits. That the worgen could be exactly the partners they need to stand a chance against an ever more brutal and unhinged horde. That they could tip the scale to keep the enemy at bay, even defeat them.

Some of the younger worgen start to give cheering howls at that, but Genn is holding back, waiting. He has a feeling this isn't over yet. And he is right.

Suddenly, Varian's face changes.

He furrows his brows, glares at him hatefully and then even spits in his direction. "But the vote is unnecessary," he snarls through clenched teeth. "For as sure as night follows day, I will never allow these mongrels into the alliance! Honor and trust, these are what the alliance needs. Not those beasts who even when they paraded around as men were lacking in both. What if they decide to abandon us once more? Will they even bother to give us a warning? No. I find nothing worthy, nothing honorable in this pack of hounds. And so I will never vote aye to their admission back into the fold."

Genn closes his eyes as the High King leaves and chaos errupts among the other representatives of the summit.

His sin, his punishment. His mistakes of the past won't be forgiven, of course not. He was a fool to hope for a different outcome. Gilneas stands alone, as it always did. As it always will.

He is lying on his bed, very drunk, yet too upset to fall asleep, when he suddenly feels the touch of a cool, comforting hand on his troubled forehead.

He opens his eyes and there she is, as heartbreakingly beautiful as in his memory.

Instead of her dark ranger garb, she wears an elvish dress this time, gauzy as spider silk, its silvery-bright colour matching the one of the hair that frames her heart-shaped face like a halo.

Big, slightly slanted deep-red eyes meet his, the impression in them unreadable.

"I told you," she whispers and gently strokes his hair. "They will never accept you. You should have taken my offer when you still had a choice."

"Not real," he croaks, wide-eyed."You are not here- you can't be-"

She smiles slightly. "Can't I?"

He tries to grip her wrist but unsurprisingly, his fingers grasp only empty air. How is it possible that he can feel her touch but not touch her himself?

"What foul magic is this?" he gasps. "Stay away from me, monster!"

"How rude." Her full red lips form a pout. "After all that we've shared you still call me that."

She leans closer to breathe a kiss on his lips and he is unable to move, unable to even turn his head away.

Maybe this is a dream after all? A continuation of his usual nightmares that feels even more real than those, some kind of mocking culmination of his torments?

"You really shouldn't drink so much," she scolds him softly. "I'm beginning to worry about you."

"You'd better worry about yourself," he manages to snarl back. "One day I will return, and if you and the rest of your unholy brood still desecrate my land, I will find you. And I will kill you. All of you."

"So vengeful," she replies with a small, sad smile. "Do you really think the prospect of death, true death, scares me? My whole existence is a curse and there's no joy in it, or well- almost none."

"Then I will end your suffering." he promises her, and thinks, _and my own.  
_

She climbs on the bed and straddles his hips and he is still immobilized, as if he was chained to the damn bed just as he was to the chair back then.

However, not every part of his body fails to do their job as he notices to his great shame. He knows now that this is a dream, but this doesn't ease the feeling of humiliation for being so helplessly at the mercy of his tormentor and his own, twisted desires.

She bends down and her silky hair brushes his face as she brings her mouth to his and whispers against his lips. "Don't end it just yet."

When he wakes up again, he feels surprisingly rested and clear-headed.

A quick look out of the window suggests that he has slept the day away, the shadows are already growing longer. Then again, it's hard to tell in this land of perpetual twilight. It isn't called Darkshore for nothing.

He gets up and starts his daily routine, performs what little administrative duties an exiled king still has.

The alliance guests have not left the city yet, even though the purpose of the summit has failed. He assumes, Malfurion is going to talk to King Varian in private and try to change his mind, but he has little hope that the Archdruid will succeed where he failed.

The High King's speech left little room for doubts, and obviously his mind on the matter was made up long in advance.

He makes his rounds, speaks to his people who are visibly upset about the outcome of the summit, tries to reassure them as good as he can, promises that they will take back what is theirs without the help of the alliance, even though he doesn't know how.

In need of reassurance himself, he considers to visit his wife Mia in the Temple of the Moon. Much more open-minded and empathic by nature than he is, she had quickly made friends with some of the priestesses there and enjoys learning from them and joining them in their daily chores.

She, too, he assumes, will be disappointed by Varian's reaction, yet willing to look to the future with her inherent optimism. She will tell him what he wants to hear, that everything will be alright in the end, that their people are strong and will persevere against all odds.

But even though her words and presence would certainly comfort him, he can't bring himself to face her right now.

He knows he doesn't deserve her trust. He has failed her, too, has cheated on her and continues to do so, even if unwillingly so and only in his dreams.

Back in his study he takes a modest meal, then he begins a letter to Darius Crowley who insisted to stay behind at the homefront. He has no idea if the letter will reach him, or even if his old friend is still alive, but he writes it anyway. The wine bottle on his desk remains untouched.

It is getting dark quickly now and a full moon rises in the night sky. Another good night for hunting.

Sometimes it feels as if the hunt is all he still lives for. And it will only end when at last, he brings down the ultimate prey.

As fate would have it, he and his worgen are not the only hunters in the Darnassian woods this night.

King Varian, too, has taken the chance to vent his frustration at the expense of the local wildlife and soon, the chance meeting turns into a contest.

Respectively eager to outdo the other and shame them in front of their own people, they both pursue a boar. Whoever kills it first will be the winner.

But the prey they finally face is not a boar but a bear, a giant, bloodthirsty beast. And in order to survive, they are left no choice but to combine their forces and bring it down together.

It is the start of a new, life-long friendship, based on mutual respect.

And in the morning, a reformed High King would proclaim the return of Gilneas into the fold of the Alliance.

Only one day later a gravely wounded Warden from Ashenvale arrives at Darnassus, the only survivor of a brutal ambush.

Hellscream is here, he reports, before he succumbs to his injuries despite the efforts of the healers, and with him, a huge army of orcs.

The war has come back to him.


End file.
